


Abort Program

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Daddy Issues, Grif is an asshole, Holodeck Character, M/M, Sarge has no idea about any of this, all they ever do is stand around and talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-18 00:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2329322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is harder to explain than he would have expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abort Program

**Cuarto Mucho Secreto Holográfico**

**Outpost 17-B**

 

"Now Simmons," Sarge was saying, "you know you're my favorite."

"Oh gosh, sir," Simmons answered, "I like to think so."

The simulation of the jeep had been discarded earlier in the afternoon, and now the Holodeck at Red Base was empty of all organic life forms save one. Simmons shuffled his feet. He'd run this one a few times but this time, he was pretty sure, he'd finally worked all the bugs out.

“And I know you think I don't appreciate you enough," Sarge went on, "but just 'cause I don't say it, don't mean I don't appreciate it! You're the glue that keeps this team together! And we've been together for so long now, I like to think you're more than just my incredibly competent and handsome second in command."

"I'm also a level four chess master."

"Of course you are! And, well, from now on Simmons, I’d like you to call me dad,” Sarge said, “son.”

Simmons sniffed. Stiff upper lip, or whatever, right—push on through the script. “I would be honored sir,” he said, looking down. He held his breath.

“Son,” Sarge said, in a cheerful perversion of his usual tones. “Now what did I just say?”

“I would be honored,” Simmons corrected, “ _dad_.” The breath he’d been holding whooshed out, and he felt lightheaded, almost like he’d been on the verge of passing out. His heart beat heavy off-rhythm thuds against his mostly titanium ribcage. He raised a hand—now was the moment of truth, the final hurdle.

“C’mere, son,” Sarge said, and pulled him into a hug. _Score._

Simmons sighed, almost dizzily, and wrapped his arms around the broad chest. It would be better without the armor, but Sarge never took off his armor so—

“Simmons, what the hell are you doing down there?”

Simmons froze like a deer on a traintrack. That was Grif’s voice—at this point he could have picked it out of a choir—and if that was Grif’s voice then that mean that Grif was _coming down_.

“Abort program,” he hissed.

“I am sorry,” the holodeck responded, “I did not catch that.”

“Simmons, are you hugging somebody?”

Oh shit he was still locked in a full-body embrace shit shit _shit_.

“Abort _program_!” Simmons shouted, struggling out from underneath the simulation whose arms had locked in an aggressively tender cuddle.

“That is all you had to say,” the holodeck replied, managing to sound a bit wounded. “Terminating program designation: Sargent Substitute Beta.”

The simulation of Sarge melted away into a gentle mist of data, leaving Simmons staring across the room at the stairs, and at Grif, who had just climbed down them. Simmons got the feeling Grif was staring too, but with these visors you could never tell for sure.

“Was that Sarge—” Grif started.

“No!”

Grif tilted his head. “Really? Because I’m _pretty_ sure that’s his armor.”

The last remnants of the program disappeared, leaving nothing but the two humans behind. Simmons clenched his fists.

“I—I was practicing—hand-to-hand, um, grappling, and I just picked the first color that came up.”

“Holy shit,” Grif said, delighted, “that was totally Sarge. You snuck down here just to indulge some weird daddykink fantasy—”

“I did not!”

“Oh yeah?” Grif said. He folded his hands together and kicked up a leg like a swooning romance heroine. “Oh _daddy_ , tell me I’ve been a good boy.”

Simmons spluttered. “That is—that is entirely inappropriate—”

“Ooh what are you gonna do about it, tell daddy?”

“I’ll—I’ll—”

While Simmons was desperately searching for an appropriate threat, Grif was sauntering across the holodeck like he owned the damn place. He threw an arm around Simmons’ shoulder, pressed one hand against his chest.

“Now son,” he said, in an absurd imitation of a southern accent, “ah’ve got a real special assignment fer you. Yer gonna suck daddy’s dick, yes siree.”

“Oh my god, Grif, you have got to _stop_.”

“Get down on yer knees, private. Ah’m gonna make you a big boy.”

“ _Grif!_ ”

Grif dissolved into laughter, pulling Simmons in tighter. “I always knew you were a kissass,” he practically giggled, “but a downright cocksucker? Man, you are just full of surprises.”

Simmons felt his mouth go dry. The word _cocksucker_ sent this inexplicable zing of heat through his hips. Where did that come from? Why was this happening to him? What horrible alien god had he pissed off in a past life?

Grif, meanwhile, just seemed entertained by the whole thing. “So, like, what do you think is gonna happen?” he asked, giving Simmons’ chest plate a comradely slap. “Are we talking a sex-pollen scenario or a good old fashioned army shower thing? Or are you just hoping he’ll bend you over the desk in the main hall and—”

“Stop talking stop talking stop _talking_!”

“Whoa,” Grif said, extricating himself quickly. He held his hands up in a universal signal for _no gun no stun no fun._ “Chill out, I was just taking an interest is all.”

“In my fake made up sex fantasy life?” Simmons squeaked.

Grif shrugged. “Hey man, you were the one climbing on the sim Sarge. These are your issues.”

“I don’t have issues!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

Grif put his hands on his hips. “You’ve got a boner right now don’t you.”

Simmons snapped his legs together, winced miserably, and tried not to make pained noises. “No,” he lied.

“Okay dude, whatever. I don’t care anyways, I’m just trying to avoid wrench duty. I've got one job," he said, switching back to his horrific Sarge imitation, " _and that's ter always know where Simmons is every hour of every day!_  So, hey, you can have your weird totally-not-kinky RP with the hologram program if you _want_ to.” Grif dropped down crossed legged on the concrete.

“What, you’re just gonna _watch_?”

Grif shrugged again. “If it’s so totally _not gay_ then why do you care?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Forget it,” Simmons grunted, finally. “Mood’s ruined anyways.”

Grif popped his helmet off—he was getting more and more likely to do that these days, regardless of what regulations said—and sat back on his elbows. He looked smug. His dark face had that narrowed, crooked smile that Simmons knew from countless lost bets. Simmons aggressively shoved some dirt around with his toes.

“Soooo—” Grif tilted his head and gestured towards Simmons’ lower half with one hand. “You gonna need some help with that?”


End file.
